


Everybody Comes to Rick's

by lotherington



Category: Casablanca (1942), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:49:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotherington/pseuds/lotherington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mysterious city of sin and intrigue! Sherlock and John meet again in Casablanca.</p>
<p>
  <i> ‘He plays that bloody song all the time,’ John said with a half-choked laugh, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He extracted two and lit the both of them, handing one to Sherlock without looking at him. </i>
</p>
<p>Crossover with <i>Casablanca</i> (1942).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Comes to Rick's

**Author's Note:**

> This was half-written in a notebook until mazarin221b mentioned that she wanted to see a _Casablanca_ crossover as part of the next Let's Draw Sherlock challenge. This transports John and Sherlock into the world of the film, but doesn't have them fitting any of the roles the original characters play - I'd love to see that written, though. The couple of lines I've included from _Casablanca_ are deliberate misquotations.

‘I told myself it couldn’t possibly be you,’ John said as he sat down at the bar, shoulder-to-shoulder with Sherlock. 

‘I knew you couldn’t be anyone else,’ Sherlock replied, draining his glass of the cocktail it contained.

‘Of all the bars in all the towns in all the world...’

They looked at each other for the first time in four years. Both of them smiled, Sherlock snorting half a laugh from his nose.

‘What brings you here then, Doctor Watson?’ The bridge of Sherlock’s nose was burnt, his skin darker than it ever had been in London, turned a golden brown from the Moroccan sun. ‘I always imagined you’d be leading a decorated battalion or something by now.’

‘I’m missing, presumed dead, technically,’ John replied. ‘I was wounded, left behind, somehow managed to drag myself to this place.’ He nodded at the bartender after being handed his usual. ‘Now I’m stuck here, like everyone else.’ He knocked his drink back. ‘You?’

‘A similar story, really,’ Sherlock replied, stealing the cherry from John’s glass. 

The sounds of the bar filled the sudden silence between them. People talked and laughed too loudly, glasses clinked, lighters snapped, and somewhere amongst the din, a piano played a slow and gentle melody.

‘He plays that bloody song all the time,’ John said with a half-choked laugh, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He extracted two and lit the both of them, handing one to Sherlock without looking at him. 

‘The very thought of you...’ Sherlock sang softly, swirling the ice left in his glass around with a fingertip. He sucked in a lungful of smoke from his cigarette, leaving it resting between his lips.

‘I thought I’d never see you again.’ John brought his cigarette to his mouth and took a huge breath in, holding the smoke in his lungs before releasing it with a shuddering breath. ‘I was so sure I’d never see you again.’ He tightened his fingers where they rested on the bar.

‘Haven’t I always surprised you?’ Sherlock said, turning to look at John. He rested his elbow on the bar and leant his head against his fist, taking another drag from his cigarette. There was a moment’s silence before Sherlock said, ‘I’ve a room.’

‘Well,’ John said. ‘We don’t know a thing about each other.’

Sherlock grinned. ‘I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve recently been invalided out of North Africa. I know you’ve got a sister who’s worried about you but you won’t write and let her know you’re alive and well, because she’s a miserable violent petty alcoholic and you prefer her to think you’re dead. I know you take your tea without sugar, that you stick your tongue out whenever you’re concentrating on something and that you suspect that limp you’ve acquired to be psychosomatic -- quite correctly, I’m afraid.’ Sherlock smiled as John shook his head. ‘Quite enough to be going on with, I think, don’t you?’

‘You winked.’

‘Sorry?’

‘After your little spiel, the first time, you winked.’

‘I did?’

‘You did. Do it again.’

Sherlock tapped the ash off his cigarette and waved his hand dismissively. ‘I don’t remember doing that.’

‘Do it, Sherlock,’ John said, leaning in. ‘For old time’s sake.’

Sherlock sighed and winked, making a clicking noise with his mouth.

‘That was it,’ John laughed. ‘That was it exactly.’

They were quiet once more. Sherlock looked out across the sea of people in the bar. ‘I still,’ he murmured, cutting himself off with a troubled frown. ‘I never stopped--’

‘I know.’ John stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Why don’t we see about this room of yours?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, standing up. ‘Yes. And I’ll get us passes to Lisbon by next week.’ He crushed the end of his cigarette into the glass ashtray on the bar.

‘You sound rather confident about that.’ John began to limp slowly towards the cloakroom.

‘Please, John,’ Sherlock said with a withering look, already three steps ahead. His eyes were alight with mischief and even walking backwards, he cut through the crowd easily. ‘You’re forgetting. I’m Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Yes,’ John said to himself, shaking his head as he followed. ‘Yes, you are.’


End file.
